If It's The Last Thing That I Do
by mangochi
Summary: The hole in his side had gone past pain and was now hovering somewhere between freezing and numb. It couldn't possibly be a good thing, and John choked out a bloody huff of laughter as Dorian clung on to his hand and told him repeatedly that it would be okay.


**A/N: Ah, yes, the good ole Terrible Things Happen To John and Dorian Freaks Out maneuver. Jolly good.**

The hole in his side had gone past pain and was now hovering somewhere between freezing and numb. It couldn't possibly be a good thing, and John choked out a bloody huff of laughter as Dorian clung on to his hand and told him repeatedly that it would be okay.

"John, stay with me, man. Come on."

He forced his sagging eyelids open and glared feebly. The android didn't look so good himself, a severe gash on his forehead oozing indigo goop and blue energy crackling up his face intermittently from shorting circuits. "Won't be...going anywhere...fast." He gestured weakly down at himself and grimaced as the dark puddle around him increased a little more. Dorian looked down at his bloodsoaked shirt and pushed down a little harder with the hand he had clamped over the gaping wound. It wasn't making much of a difference, and they both knew it.

"You'll be okay," John realized Dorian was still muttering under his breath, over and over like a mantra. "You'll be okay, you'll be okay..."

"Dorian."

"Shut up, John. Don't talk. You're gonna be okay."

"Dorian," John rasped again, and his partner looked at him properly for the first time. There was something in his eyes that John rarely saw there, something he used to pretend he couldn't see because that would somehow make the android something...more.

Dorian was afraid.

"Do me...a favor."

Dorian leapt at it eagerly. "Sure, what?"

"Don't...lie...to me," John wheezed sternly. "You're...awful...at it."

"You're not going to die, John."

"There...you go...again…" Everything was spiraling away, colors fading and bleeding out just as surely as he was.

"John, listen to me." Dorian squeezed his hand so tightly that it would have hurt if he could still feel. "I called in the medics, they're coming as fast as they can. Just hold on." There was a small "Please" seconds later that John wasn't altogether sure that he had heard properly.

He could feel himself fading again, riding out on the ebbing waves of blackness, and all he could feel was that terrible coldness and a relentless pressure around his left hand.

"John. John. Are you listening?" Dorian sounded utterly devastated, and John felt a prick of regret somewhere in the coldness.

He wondered if Dorian could cry. Would he, if John died?

_Shit, I'm dying_, he abruptly realized.

"John!"

_Sorry_, he tried to say. _Sor-_

…

"...Detective, can you..."

"...I need oxygen-"

A flare of pain, and he would have gasped reflexively if he could move-

A hiss of air, cold and dry against his face.

"John."

He knew that voice, he knew…

"Captain, I'm so sorry-"

"No, Dorian, it's not..."

_Dorian_.

Something was beeping, he was cold, a flurry of movement and half-blurred lights dancing across his eyelids.

"Pressure falling! Someone-"

He could still feel the grip around his hand and, real or not, he squeezed back.

…...

...

..._beep_…...

..._beep….beep…..._

It was soft. And warm. As far as death went, John thought vaguely, so far it wasn't bad at all.

He heard a faint murmuring, a gentle brush of air against his face. He opened his eyes. There was an expanse of white fabric before him, and he stared at it stupidly for a second before he realized it was the well-padded bosom of the nurse currently leaning precariously over him to take his readings.

"Morning," he croaked.

Something had to be said about the calm efficiency of the nurses these days. She looked down at him coolly, wished him a good morning in return, and finished her readings before pulling away and proceeding to make sure he was well and truly back in the land of the living.

"You've had us worried, Detective," she said, checking the gauze wrapped around his ribs for the fourth time. "You flatlined twice in surgery, you know."

"I didn't know, actually." John looked around stiffly, his neck creaking in complaint. The hospital room was small and spare, the bed taking up most of the space and leaving only enough room for a single chair and a rickety table. Something irked him, and he couldn't put a finger on it until the nurse said, "Your partner will be glad to know of your recovery."

"Dorian? Has he-"

"The doctor will be by to check up on you shortly." She reached over and gave the morphine pump a couple of expert squeezes. "Try to rest, Mr. Kennex."

He tried to protest- he'd slept for what felt like three weeks- but that damn morphine was already in his bloodstream and…

….

The second time he woke, Dorian was there. He was sitting in the chair in the corner, head bent to his chest and pondering his loosely clasped hands solemnly.

"Dorian," John whispered warily.

Dorian's head jerked up, and he stared at John wildly for a second before rising from the chair. John raised his hand automatically, the only part of him he could really move without something around him beeping madly, and Dorian took it after only a split second of hesitation. It really wasn't what John had intended, but he accepted the gesture wordlessly, letting the android squeeze his hand tentatively as if reassuring himself that John was very much real.

The cuts on his face had been patched up, John noticed. Rudy's work was spectacular; he could hardly tell that there had been any exterior damage at all. Dorian's eyes were fixed steadily on their clasped hands, thumb moving absently over a healing scab on John's knuckle.

"You look better," the android said eventually.

John humphed. "What'd I say about you and lying?"

A ghost of a smile twitched at Dorian's lips. "Well, to be honest, man, you look pretty terrible."

"Thanks," John grumbled. He let Dorian pet his hand a moment longer, staring down blankly at where the sheets sagged below his right hip. They must have taken his leg; he couldn't see it anywhere in the room.

"I see Rudy fixed you up," he said finally, breaking the silence. "Looking good."

"Thanks," Dorian murmured absently. He released John's hand, and John found himself grasping for the empty air before catching himself and lowering his hand back to the bed.

Dorian was still wearing that strange expression, tense and on guard. It was a bad look on a face that was usually so much more expressive than John's. He remembered seeing it streaked with grease and dirt, blue eyes wide and scared. He remembered wondering if it could shed tears.

"I'm sorry," John said quietly.

"For what?" Dorian asked blandly, and John winced inwardly. Shit, he had really messed up, hadn't he? "For taking off your vest against regulation? For putting yourself in the line of fire needlessly?"

"For getting shot," John corrected automatically, then frowned. This was going all wrong. "Well, _yes_, for all that, but I had to, Dorian. He was going to shoot her. And we saved her, didn't we? Saved her and her kid from that crazy asshole."

"And you almost died." That stony expression flickered briefly. "You almost _died_, John."

"Wouldn't be the first time." That was apparently the wrong answer. Dorian slammed his hands down on the side of the bed so hard that John felt his body lift a couple of inches off the mattress. His side twinged and he winced, and Dorian's face was suddenly filled with fear and concern. He made a move as if he was reaching for John's face, then wavered hesitantly. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that."

"S'okay," John mumbled uncomfortably. "It was my fault to begin with."

"I shouldn't have lost my temper." Dorian sounded stricken, like he'd run over a kitten instead of bouncing John a little. "That was very immature of me."

John stifled an awkward smile. "You know people don't really talk like that, right?"

"I'm sorry," Dorian repeated brokenly, and John sighed in frustration. "Hey, I'm the one trying to apologize here, all right?" Dorian stilled, looking slightly abashed, and John scowled without any real irritation.

"I'm sorry I freaked you out. Really. Can't promise I won't do it again, _but_-" he frowned and Dorian closed his mouth reluctantly, "-I'll be careful, all right? So, you know, don't..." Cry. "...don't worry so much."

Dorian considered him carefully, and his expression softened minutely. He went and dragged the chair over to the side of the bed and sat down, placing his left hand over John's without preamble and pressing on it lightly. John turned his wrist after a moment, lacing their fingers together automatically, and was only vaguely unnerved by how right it felt.

"Don't die on me, you hear?" Dorian murmured, eyes fixed on their hands.

John said nothing, but he thought that Dorian understood, anyway.


End file.
